


Put That Thing Back Where it Came From (or So Help Me)

by herbailiwick



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood Drinking, Character Death, Gen, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Sexual Harassment, Songfic, Souls, Sucker Punch - Freeform, Trickster Mode
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-26
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 22:43:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/655183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is doing something stupid enough to prompt angelic intervention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Meadow Fresh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam doesn't feel like he can trust himself, so he opts to be less of himself.
> 
> Rated PG.

It's like wiggling a loose tooth at first, only a lot more painful. 

He wants to see if he can get it out. He started trying back when he'd most needed it out, like a trapped coyote might nibble at its leg given the thought, like a man with gangrene armed with a kitchen knife might try to see just what the knife was capable of. He couldn't manage anything but a wiggle, though, a pathetic nudge.

The immediate threat is gone, and that should be enough for Sam. But maybe he likes the taste of his foreleg. Maybe he likes the way the kitchen knife feels in his hand.

He'd had a life, a life good enough to dream about, and now it's gone, but not just gone for the moment, like after Jessica. Really gone, really you-can't-fucking-fix-this-so-don't-try-Sam gone. And he'd been weeks away from deciding on an engagement ring.

What a joke.

Normal people tend to judge a guy for working maintenance when he could be doing something else, but Amelia? She hadn't. Amelia had given him his first legally-purchased birthday cake, his first home, his first...taste of being accepted for being himself. She'd called him creepy and, you know what? Maybe he was, a little. He tried not to be, but it was a fair judgment.

Amelia had been so _normal_. She'd spent her time sitting around making judgment calls about other _human beings_ , which had made Sam feel human himself, and not like he was just the vessel of Lucifer or the harbinger of the Apocalypse or a man absolutely losing his mind. They'd bought a home _together_ , and Sam had  _belonged_ there. Dean had lived in one house for four years. Sam had been half a year old exactly by the time he'd had to leave the same house, and he only remembers it in the context of being Not His Home.

Sam keeps becoming distracted by what he isn't supposed to have, and the act of revisiting the memory of Amelia and Riot in his mind is some sort of weird addiction he's fallen into, just another one to add to the list of Things Dean Doesn't Know, a list he keeps trying to downsize, but it always grows again.

He  _has_  to try and wiggle it into movement again. It's not going to be like last time. Last time, he'd been hanging out with the Campbells and not with Dean. Last time, it had been for a year and a half. When last time ended, he'd been dealing with a wall that had prevented him from applying perspective to what he'd done. Sam's fairly sure he knows what he's doing this time.

Trying to take it out of him feels...nice. It produces a good, cleansing, centering sort of pain, a hateful but pleasant sort of burn that means _you deserve this_. Sam's interested in the results of being rid of the thing for a while. He remembers how what slows him down as a hunter had been thrown off like a pair of picked cuffs upon his lucky return from Hell. He remembers how being rid of the glowing guilt magnet had given him purpose and focus and energy and a curious interest in things that normally didn't even cross his mind.

He remembers...peace.

Dean wouldn't—couldn't—understand. There's little Dean would understand _less_. It's not that Sam necessarily enjoys hiding things from Dean, but he gets _tired_ of Dean's Lack Of Trust biting him in the ass, crippling him, and making him feel so...freakish. Dean understands very little sometimes, especially when it comes to things happening inside Sam's head.  Dean doesn't understand how Sam feels about Amelia and Riot because Dean had still felt like a hunter when he was with Lisa, and Sam...had only felt like Sam.

The amount of acceptance he'd gotten from Amelia when she'd finally opened up was beyond words. He'd not felt like Sam since he was a little boy who didn't know monsters were real. Being with Amelia had made him more than just A Winchester, more than just An Abomination, more than Just An Addict. 

Sam, despite how it often appeared, did not go looking for trouble. He'd hung up his shotgun full of rock salt. He'd _lived_. Dean was the restless sort, the sort to look around and find everything out, to ask the lady who bumped into Sam over a hundred times what she had in her hands. They just processed things differently, which is why they needed each other, which is why all cards _should_ be on the table, in a perfect world, but Sam was not going to be strapped down to a chair and have an angel play the world's most painful game of Operation with his insides, not now, not ever again, if it could be helped. 

Touching the thing on his own feels better than when Cas had done it. He has a more delicate touch than an angel, for one, and for two, he was always one to prefer doling out his own punishments. He was the type of kid who'd put himself in Time Out. Now, he's the type of adult who prefers to do his own soul-searching.

Literally.

He has his reasons, even if Dean wouldn't understand.

***

Items in a soon-to-close museum are flying around and ending people's lives, and, at first, they think it's a spirit or a poltergeist. Oddly, though, absolutely nothing fits the history of the place, and salt and everything else they try just won't work, and by the time they call Garth, they find he's too busy to get ahold of right away.

Bobby always had time for them. Bobby's in a better place, and Sam wouldn't take him from there, wouldn't even suggest such an idea, but Sam doesn't really have anyone he can call and bitch about Dean to anymore.

Sam used to pick up trite little knicknacks for Bobby every once in a while. A paperweight here, a doorstop there, all heavy and awkward but interesting. It had been a long-standing tradition, but there's no reason to find stupid things for people that live in one spot anymore. Sam had lived in one spot for a few blessed months. It was more than he could have hoped for, more than he'd asked for since Jess, and it was a peaceful time that he finds hard to separate from his guilt about Kevin Tran. 

Home's always been an important concept for Sam. When Castiel had told him to go to some place that he found soothing, Sam had quickly gone to his mental concept of _home_. It was a place he'd created when he was young, when generic motel wallpaper and beds that didn't belong to him and never felt quite the same as each other started to feel like too much. He'd never liked change. He'd always craved belonging and routine, neither of which their lives could provide. 

He still remembers the moment that he realized not every family moved around all the time, that not every family practically lived out of their car. Cas had told him to go someplace soothing, so he'd gone to the imaginary house in his head, which he'd revised over and over again throughout the years, but only one bit at a time, leaving the essentials exactly the same. 

There'd always been a dog too. And, sometimes, when he was older, when he was particularly lonely, a wife. 

Sam always knew his ability to dream was a pretty powerful thing, but he was unprepared for his mind getting away with him in quite the way it had.

***

They never find out what the thing in the museum is, not while they're in town, which is a rare occurrence and therefore worrying. But they do stop it. They pull some illegal strings as hard as they can and convince the right people to keep the museum open. They stay an entire two days afterward to keep an eye on the place. No one else dies. The weapons all stay in their place.

Sam still feels really uneasy about it, though. He wants to know what the problem was. He can vaguely remember how all the rules changed once, when he'd just come back, even though at the time he'd felt nothing but peace and the thrill of the hunt.  Dean feels uneasy too because, well, he never really feels all that  _easy_  about anything anymore. 

When Garth gets back to them, he spends time looking through some of Bobby's old books, but he gets distracted by other cases before he finds any answers, and since no one's dying, they decide not to kick a gift horse in the balls. 

***

For the most part, Sam has fallen back into sync with Dean, which is a little impressive considering their starkly different past year, but maybe they're too synced to sink, maybe they're going to be okay because their bond will always be the strongest force on earth for them. 

Sam hopes so. 

And in the mean time, he adds Wiggling His Soul to the list of the most dangerous addictions he's ever suffered from, stupid things like drinking demon's blood and praying to a God who may not be listening and remodeling his Inner Home. He wiggles on relentlessly, despite the pain, because of the pain, and tries to see what will happen when he succeeds.

No, he knows what will happen, actually: freedom. Even his Apocalypse Guilt had been taken away back then. He wants to feel that freedom again. He knows too much freedom is a slavery all of its own, but he'd like to try and find a good sort of balance. It won't be for forever. He'll just do it to take little vacations. Well...staycations.

It sounds more and more like a Pretty Good Idea.

If he can't quite trust his own mind anymore, it'd be nice to take control where he can get it.

***

When Dean is gone, when Cas is gone, he wiggles it around and pokes at it, trying to get it to come out, like he thinks it'll be easy. It's as tempting as pushing against a tooth, as tempting as pushing against a sore spot in your mouth or an old scar in the palm of your hand.

It keeps getting easier to move it, though he still grunts quietly in pain because, wow, just...wow. But it's a good pain. A good pain is still painful, thankfully, because he deserves every sensation of pain just as much as he deserves the way he's going to stop feeling it when it's out of him.

Sam finds that the ritual of wiggling and nudging and budging starts to focus him. He's getting so much better at it, and knowing one day he might be able to have a little freedom here and there makes some of the harder cases worth it.

He's getting in it. Deep. He's not quite sure he's doing the right thing, and he's not quite sure he wants to _be_ sure. It sounds nice, though. Being soulless is comfortable. It's a little like home, especially when  his head keeps insisting on tricking him.

***

It's almost out of him. No, seriously; he's gotten that far with his practicing.

He's already taken as much over-the-counter painkiller as he can because, wow, _shit_ , it's...unpleasant, and that's an understatement to make all understatements blush, and he's angel-proofed the room, and Dean should be gone, should be drinking and trying to get back into the swing of a Hunter's Time Off.

Dean probably thinks Sam is still moping over Amelia. And he wouldn't be wrong. But, Sam is trying this out so he can _stop_ moping, for a few hours at least. It's a good thing...sort of.

Sam's mind tells him that if he's hiding something from Dean, it could go either way on the Morality Scale, but that if he's hiding something from _Cas_ , lovable, understanding Cas, it's probably firmly in Fairly Bad territory.

So, swallowing, he makes the sigils just a little more clear before he sits and closes his eyes against memories of all the pain he remembers clearly and the pain he only remembers at the edge of his mind in the dream-hazy Hell sections he tries not to spend any time with, or at least hardly any time, and the pain that comes from losing your grip on reality.

God, it's hanging by a thread! Seriously, it's almost there, he's _nearly got it_ , Sam realizes as he closes his eyes and grunts, and then screams. His teeth are clenched around the makeshift gag of a clean gray t-shirt. He loses himself in the pain, and that's kind of nice, that's kind of what he deserves, even if he hates it.

Suddenly, the door is being knocked at, and his eyes fly open wide, and he knows it's his only chance for the night, now that someone is concerned, so he takes it, tries his damnedest to snap that thread, and his screaming and writhing increase. He's pushing himself to his absolute, sweating, panting, teeth-gnashing limits, and the knocking gets louder because that's only natural, and then, finally, gloriously, Sam cries out in relief at the lack of sensation, at the fact he's holding that elusive little glowing thing in his own hand.

He actually sobs, a nice complement to the tears that have been sliding down his face since that final burst of pain and release, and he's got seconds to decide what to do, so he pulls his jacket off shaking shoulders with shaking hands. He covers up the evidence of what he's just done, protects and hides what he wants back at some point, but doesn't want back just yet.

Slipping his reactions back under his control, he opens the door and pronounces, "Hi! Is there a problem?"

A middle-aged woman with deep concern in her eyes says, "I...heard screaming." She tries to peer past Sam into the room.

"Yeah. That...was me," Sam says with a bit of a false smile. "Nightmare." The smile widens.

"Oh," she says, blinking, processing the explanation. He can lie all he wants; he's got no conscience to give him away. He steps back a bit, showing her there's no one else there.

"Can I see for myself?" she asks with hesitance.

"It's really not any of your business," Sam says. Then, recognizing that she might get the police involved from the look of horror on her face, he steps aside. She even checks the bathroom. She doesn't even think to move his jacket, which makes him smirk.

Sam sits and watches TV and feels nothing.

***

As with most of Sam's obsessions, it becomes a habit. Participate in a terrible hunt? Remember how much fun it had been being a part of something he could never have? Disappoint... _everyone_? Make a sigil, wiggle his little "loose tooth" around, scream at the pain, pull it out, feel no pain whatsoever, dream about nothing, enjoy reality. 

Feel okay again? Craving guilt? Is someone coming? Rest for a while, put it back in, scream in pain, pass out, wake up disoriented. Erase the angel-proofing sigils.

Sam's pretty sure he's the only human who can do it, or who can do it and knows it can be done, anyway. And he's  _very_ sure that he's a freak right down to his core, or lack thereof. But at least he doesn't dream of normalcy when he's soulless. He's okay with how his life is when he's soulless because he's okay with everything then.

***

One day, when Dean steps out, Cas kneels down next to the bed Sam's sitting on and leans in, uncomfortably close. An angel sniffing at his chest and stomach would be enough to make Sam squirm under normal circumstances, but he knows exactly what Cas must be able to detect when Cas looks up at him with horrified eyes.

"What?" Sam says, swallowing.

Cas gives Sam a pained look and says, "You tell me." It's a plea trying to be an order.

"New, uh, detergent," Sam says too brightly. "So meadow fresh, right?" 

Cas's face falls in disappointment.

Sam wonders how long it will be before Cas tells Dean.

***

Following being found out, Sam tries not to do it for a few solid weeks, for nearly a month. There's no emotional break, no rest from his guilt, from his dreams, his overly potent imagination, except in his dreams, when Cas arrives sometimes, to help. Cas gives him little smiles of encouragement he treasures.

Only, they hit a case where dogs are being killed. It shouldn't bother him, really. They see _people_ die all the time. But...people do bad things sometimes, a lot of the time, as Sam knows by being a person who does bad things, and dogs? Dogs don't do anything. It's people who mistreat dogs that lead dogs to develop bad habits, not the dogs themselves.

Sam had always wanted to have a dog. A dog represents having a home, a yard, maybe even a fence, a bed he can let it sleep at the foot of, a place to keep dog food and dog bowls, a chance to pick up his own dog's poop in plastic baggies, something disgusting to consider but also somehow thrilling and romantic.

Dean hates dogs, and Sam gets that. But Riot had been a huggable, trainable, _good_ one. He'd been Sam's best friend, literally his best friend, until Amelia.

And Amelia...well. Her friendship had been...! Well.

Sam finds himself wasting scratchy tissues crying over the case, his heart breaking for the dogs and for the fact that he'd lost more than a dog or a home. Dean tells him to man up light-heartedly, and it feels both right and harsh to Sam, like a reprimand for pissing in the house, so he goes ahead and pops out his wiggly little "tooth", which doesn't hang by a thread at all anymore, which comes out more and more easily.

They finish the case easily, more easily than Sam could have managed with his soul getting in the way, and Cas gives him a look, a quick one, an assessing one, and Sam tries to avoid being sniffed by Cas, but the angel is much quicker than he'll ever be. And then Cas knows for sure, no guessing, and Cas shakes his head, and stares. And hesitates. And _worries_. 

And Sam doesn't have any fucks to give.

***

When Sam pops it back in with a grunt of pain, much less pain than even the last time, he starts to give some fucks. He wonders what Cas will do. He wonders why Cas hasn't told Dean. It could be that he has faith in Sam to stop. More likely, it's just due to the fact that Cas hates conflict. Sam feels kind of bad for putting Cas in that position, but, so far, Cas is staying quiet, and that's nice.

Maybe Cas feels like he still needs to pay for his whole God Complex moment, the one Sam had prayed to him during to try and help him. He loves Cas like Cas is one of them, and he's grateful Cas isn't bringing up the whole soulless thing. He hopes things stay that way. 

Yeah, maybe he can keep all of it under control and Dean never has to know, about his problems with reality, about his need for a break that no vacation could ever give him, that only a...staycation could. 

Maybe it'll all be fine.


	2. Flimsy Shorts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean once again find themselves the main attraction in an angelic freak show.
> 
> Rated PG-13. Includes harassment.

Sam enters the motel bathroom to find he's not in Kansas anymore. Kermit, Texas, actually. That's where he is.

An odd feeling of relief comes over Sam because maybe everything's going to be okay. Maybe...maybe he's really at his home with Amelia. Maybe that's why they couldn't solve the museum thing. 

No, though. He's seen Dean. He's seen Kevin. Why would he want Dean in Purgatory and Kevin all alone? He was in reality, and this is the dream. This must be his head playing tricks again. It's dusk, and the dying sunlight makes the lines of the furniture soften and sort of blur, and Sam actually feels sort of...safe. With his soul in and everything, despite his well-founded reservations about the whole Amelia Thing.

The magnets on the fridge are just like he remembers, stupid souvenirs and that ugly dog with the broken tail and the picture frame magnets of Amelia and her dad. Sam feels thirsty all of a sudden, so he throws open the fridge door, and there it is, his favorite beer. He takes a moment to smile at the unassuming row of bottles before reaching out to grab one.

Hearing footsteps behind him, booted footsteps, he turns around. There, bathed in the glow of the refrigerator, is John Winchester. 

"Dad?!" Sam says. He takes a step back toward the fridge, at a loss.

"'Bout time I met Amelia, don't you think?" John asks with a smile. Sam relaxes in relief. That's all the proof anyone could ever need. He's definitely dreaming, no matter how oddly real things feel. He gets out a second beer and offers it to John before turning on the kitchen's main light.

"Thanks, Sammy."

"Yeah, no, no problem," Sam says, unable to keep a stupid, small grin from his face. Not a bad dream, really. Maybe this is Cas's doing, Cas trying to reach him and tell him he's still accepted. "So what...ah, what are you doing...um?"

"Without your mother? I'm not. She's here too," John says with a laugh. "Dean even tagged along."

"Mom?" Sam grins, biting his lip. If this really is Cas's influence, he might be meeting his mom just like she would have been. "Good. Invite 'em in. Does Mom...does Mom drink?" he asks.

"Of course she does," John says, suddenly suspicious, but he seems to decide Sam's joking or being difficult on purpose.

They hear the front door open, and Sam sets his beer on the table without having opened it, rushing to the door on unsteady feet.

There she is. There she _is_. She looks older than Sam's ever seen her, finally allowed to have little lines from age that Sam absolutely adores, knowing it means extra years she's lived, even if she's part of a dream, even if lines can't ever really belong on her face. "H-," he says, voice breaking, "how?"

Mary leans in for a hug, and Sam grips her so hard and so close that he lifts her off her feet a bit, and she whoops and laughs and says, "Take it easy, Sammy," and he swallows and tries his best to play it cool and not just start to cry because...because, well, she seems pretty realistic, as far as dream Mary Winchesters go, and that's just...that's really nice. He won't ruin that.

"We just got back from the Grand Canyon!" Dean calls, and Sam takes a step back to let Mary in, Dean following right behind with a stupid grin on his face the likes of which Sam hasn't seen on his brother in a while. 

"You did?" Sam asks, voice a little slow and rough.

"Yeah. It was beautiful. Just like I remembered," Mary says brightly.

"We took a donkey ride," John says. "I thought Dean was gonna piss himself."

"Hey," Dean says, "I didn't chicken out, and that's what matters." He grins at Sam.

John rolls his eyes, handing Dean Sam's unopened beer. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

Speaking of sleeping at night, Sam should go wake up Amelia, shouldn't he? "You guys sit tight," Sam says with a shy smile after giving Mary a beer of her own. "It's late, but she won't want to miss you guys."

Sam is still grinning to himself as he pushes open the bedroom door. Amelia's going to be excited. If he can have Mom in here, he can have Amelia too.

Where'd she go? She's not in bed, and the bed...is still made. He furrows his brow but wastes no time in knocking on the bathroom door. "Amelia?" he calls. Hearing no answer, he tries the knob, turning it.

She's not there. He has a feeling she's not anywhere. 

"She's not here," Sam calls down the hall.

"Where is she?" Dean asks.

Sam walks toward Dean slowly. "Um...I don't know," he says.

"Oh. Hey," says Dean, "Where are Mom and Dad?"

Sam looks around, brow furrowing even more. "I...don't know," he says again.

"Oh _shit_ ," says Dean. "Not today. Son of a bitch!" He's staring past Sam up at the living room ceiling with a purely haunted, hunted look.

An intense dread paralyzes Sam for a moment. He doesn't want to see what Dean is seeing. This is supposed to be Cas's gift, isn't it? Except, maybe Cas is actually punishing him. Sam sort of slumps his shoulders and sighs. It's no less than he deserves. He's still not going to look at them, though.

"We gotta go," Dean says, and suddenly Sam knows it's his Dean. He doesn't know _why_ it's his Dean, but he knows no other Dean would be so calm about their parents being on the ceiling.

"No, no, no," Dean says, tugging at Sam's arm. "Don't just freeze, Sam, we gotta...there's nothing we can." His voice is choked. The flames start to spread, the heat and light of them way too familiar behind Sam, and Sam is shaking, and he nods slightly, allowing Dean to lead him out of his new home without having looked up.

"What the hell?" Dean says in a broken whisper, staring at the house as it starts to smoke and burn. 

Sam stares at it too. Then, he lets his eyes close for a moment, hoping to get back to sleep in the off chance that he might wake up for real, when he feels a strong grip on either of his arms and blinks his eyes open furiously, looking at each man in turn. His stomach drops out of his chest.

"Well, hi, officers!" Dean says brightly through eyes brimming with tears. "What the fuck do you sons of bitches want?"

***

The official story, despite Sam and Dean's protests, is that John's death was Dean's fault and Mary's death was Sam's. No one will explain how exactly they're supposed to have carried out their parents' deaths beyond, "They loved you boys too much," and the shake of a head.

"Last time I was justice's wide-eyed bitch," Dean complains, gazing at the scenery as they ride in the back of the police car, "an Egyptian god was riding my ass. I can't escape these cuffs no matter what I try. What's going on?" 

The officer in the passenger seat says, "You realize you have the right to remain silent?"

Sam rolls his eyes. It's not like they're in the real world anyway, but he in't about to push their luck if there are angels watching. Sam lowers his voice and says, "Do you think we're dreaming?"

Dean raises an eyebrow, but ultimately has to shrug. "Never had the same dream before, have we?" He pauses. "Aw hell. I'll bet we've been mojoed."

Sam bows his head slightly, agreeing with the assessment, and admits, "You know, I really wanted you to meet Amelia." Dean really might have understood, then.

"I know," Dean says gently. "I wanted to."

Somehow, that actually helps.

"You know officer," Dean says, flashing a winning smile, "we're not actually crazy. It was a house fire. We're the victims here. We just...survived."

The officer makes unyielding eye contact with Dean, and Dean finally seems to accept that they're going to the nut house.

***

"What the hell?" Sam says as they sit at a small table, gazing around at the men and women in flimsy uniforms, most of who are opting to ignore Dean and Sam.

"I don't know, dude," Dean says, shaking his head. To one of the few people who are looking at them, Dean says, "We're not crazy." Actually, Sam's not going to protest that one, personally.

She rolls her eyes. She looks pretty familiar, Sam thinks, but he doesn't give it too much thought.

Sam swallows. "So, Dean. Did you really go to the Grand Canyon with Mom and Dad?"

Dean frowns. "Yeah. One minute, I'm in the motel, with you, and the next thing I know, I'm on the back of a donkey, holding on for dear life. Mom thought it was a riot," Dean says with a cautious smile. "What a bitch," he says fondly.

Sam laughs. He'd love to be made fun of by Mary. Maybe he'll get to see her again, if this isn't reality.

"Dude. I thought theater would mean...I don't know, a TV?" Dean frowns, looking around.

"You weren't listening at all, were you?" Sam sighs. "Theater because this is where you go to act out your life."

" _Come again?_ " Dean says after a hard pause.

"Like, um. Psychological roleplay?"

" _No_ ," groaned Dean. "Screw that noise. If I wanted fixing, I wouldn't be a freakin' hunter."

"I hear that, man," a voice calls, and Sam turns to see Andy fucking Ghallager. 

"Andy!" Sam says, and Dean turns to look too, surprised.

Andy frowns. "Hey, guys," he says uncertainly.

"Andy," Sam says, "would you mind, I don't know, showing us around, introducing us?"

"...Okay," Andy says with confusion, pausing to command, "Sing the National Anthem," first.

Dean starts belting out, "O say, can you see?" off-key, with his hand over his heart.

"Stop," Andy says before Dean finishes the line, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. He nods to Sam. "Won't work on you. You're not the only one here it won't work on." Eyes filled with sudden graveness, Andy asks, "Um, did your...sorry. Did your mom die in a house fire?"

"Twice," Sam sighs.

Andy gives Sam a strange look, then sort of nervously laughs, deciding to interpret it as a joke. Dean forces a laugh, and Sam joins in.

"Being around one of you makes me feel like less of a freak," Andy admits.

"I know what you mean," Sam says, following as Andy starts to lead them out of the theater.

"There a TV here, man?" Dean asks as they head out.

"A what?" Andy asks, and Dean curses.

***

" _Whoa_ ," Dean says as they enter the room with the beds. "This don't look right."  

Sam raises an eyebrow. The bare concrete walls and floors of the rest of the asylum have turned into...motel wallpaper and carpeting. 

"Ah. Yeah. This place does that," Andy says with a nod. "And just look at the two of you." He wolf whistles.

Sam blanches. He, Dean, and even Jedi, are shirtless and barefoot and apparently going commando underneath a scant pair of shorts. They should be freezing, but they aren't. Sam still feels incredibly exposed, though.

"It just...does this? How?" Sam asks, looking around. Out the doorway, he can see more wallpaper where it certainly hadn't been before.

"Hey!" Dean says, heading to the corner where a TV sits. 

"God, nothing's ever on that thing," Andy complains.

Sam stares at Andy, who had just said he didn't know what a TV was. Then, Sam shakes his head, following Dean.

"You get like...two freakin' channels. Look at this, Sam. Infomercials and public freaking access."

"Sometimes we get C-Span," Andy says with amusement.

"Andy," Sam starts, but pauses when Andy frowns. "What?"

"Jedi. Like I said," Andy says. "I told you, in the theater."

Sam looks at Dean for a moment, who shrugs, then says, "Sorry about that, Jedi. That's...a strange name, don't you think?"

"It's not a name. It's a label. Andy, I'll admit, is my real name. Is that your thing? Are you psychic?"

"Yes," Dean says. "Yes, he is. So there's no use lying to us, about anything."

Andy looks impressed.

"Label?" asks Sam. "What do you mean, label?"

"The Master will be by soon, and then you'll each have one." Jedi laughs, "You're lucky to have found me." The amusement on Jedi's face immediately leaves it when he catches sight of the visitor in the open doorway.

"Hey there, boys." She cocks her hip out as she leans against the wall and drinks in the sight of them. "Wow. Would you look at that," she purrs. "Christmas come early, huh?"

" _Meg_ ," Sam bites out.

"Mm, a psychic, huh?" Meg pushes away from the wall and stalks closer to Sam. "Ohhh. That's nice," she says, reaching up to stroke a hand along his arm, giving it a squeeze. Sam jerks his arm away, rattled.

"Uh."

"Well would you look at those dewy eyes," she says, staring up at him, all power and defiance despite her smaller size. "That's what I'm calling you, precious," she says. "Bat them for me, will you? Or, sure, do that," she says as he furrows his brow. "I don't think you can go wrong." She pats his arm, and he jerks it away again, annoyed.

"And, you," she says to Dean, rounding on him. "His brother." She reaches out, touches Dean's bare hip with the tips of her fingers, blinking. "Ohh. That's good," she says. "Have I got a label for you."

"Want me to bat my eyes?" Dean jokes, doing so.

"Not quite," Meg grins. She squeezes his hip slightly. He gently pushes her away by the shoulder, and she backs off, grinning up at him. "See, I know what you're afraid of most, sweet thing. You're henceforth known as...Puppychow."

For a moment, Dean stops breathing, eyes swimming with the fear she's making fun of him about, but he can't help it. Meg reaches up and strokes his chest invasively, brushing fingertips over the spot where his tattoo should be.

Sam looks down. He doesn't have an anti-possession tattoo either.

"Hands off, Meg," Dean says, voice steadier than the fear in his eyes should allow for.

"Just call me The Master, sugar," Meg says, giving the nipple a solid pinch that surprises Dean, his mouth falling open.

Suddenly, Dean grabs her arm and wrist and starts to twist, but he's frozen in place before he can manage it.

"Ooo, I'm getting all tingly," she praises. "Yeah, I don't think I'd mind getting all up inside of you." She slips her arm out of his grasp, chuckling. "You guys are gonna be fun," she says. 

She turns to Sam, leaning close again. Sam swallows hard, lifting his hands in surrender cautiously. "Aww. I think I like you, Dewy Eyes," she says, looking oddly touched. "This one knows power when he sees it," she tells Dean. She smacks Sam's bare pec as if good-naturedly. Sam bows his head in embarrassment.

"Jedi," The Master says, nodding to Jedi. She slips out of the room. Dean can move again. 

"I feel ten kinds of wrong," Dean says, but he finds it in himself to smirk. "I was right about one thing, though. Irresistible nipples." 

" _Dude_ ," Sam says, shaking his head.

Dean grins at Sam and Jedi before pinching his nipple.

"That was her on a good day," Jedi supplies. 

"Well," Sam says, determined, "we have to get out of here." He means out of their dream or their angel-induced whatever, and he's talking specifically to Dean, but Jedi perks up.

"You think we can?" asks Jedi.

Sam hesitates. "Out of this place? I don't know."

There's someone in the doorway again. It's the girl from earlier this time, the one Sam thought he might recognize. "Jedi, we gotta get started," she says, and pauses. "Who are they?"

"Dewy Eyes and Puppychow. Guys, meet Can't Touch This."

"See, that name's actually kind of cool," Dean complains.

The girl glares at Dean.

Oh. Sam knows exactly who that is, and why she's wearing gloves. Actually, her name's not cool at all.

"Come on, you two," Jedi says. "We've got to get you guys some practice."

"Doing what, exactly?" says Dean.

"Dancing," Can't Touch This says bitterly. "That's all we're good for." 

“No freakin’ way.”

“Trust me,” Jedi says sharply, shaking his head, "that’s the wrong attitude. I’ve seen people be killed or even kill themselves for not playing along. So…try and go with it, for now. Learn the rules first, and  _then_ rebel.”

"I'm gonna kill Meg," Dean says fiercely. "I am _serious_ ; before we get out of here, I'm gonna kill that demon bitch."

"Yeah, I could get behind that one," Sam says. He stares down at his flimsy pair of shorts again. "Is this what we dance in? Please tell me it's not."

Jedi nods. Sam's gut sinks a little. He doesn't even feel comfortable dancing while actually wearing clothes.


	3. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody needs a Garthian angel at some point.
> 
> Rated PG. Lyrics from "As Ugly As I Seem" by the White Stripes.

The last time Sam felt this awkward doing something, he’d been announcing to the world that he had genital herpes for a commercial he was stuck inside. Sam just hopes this Mystery Angel has as much of a soft spot for him as Gabriel had seemed to, despite killing Dean and hitting Sam in the balls. The way he’d looked at Sam had been…soft, searching, like he wanted his faith in him to remain, or maybe like Sam helped him feel some faith in humanity.

They've met a few bad eggs as far as angels go, but Sam still has to think that most of them are like Cas and Anna and Gabriel. He hopes the Mystery Angel isn’t more of a Zachariah or, yikes, more of a Lucifer.

Sometimes, Sam still dreams about Lucifer. He's still afraid he’ll look over and see him again, despite what Cas did for him, despite what doing so took from Cas. Cas is a lot better now, and Sam is better too though not completely, and Lucifer really seems to be gone, trapped in his cage. Even still, sometimes he expects to see an empty chair stop being empty or expects the room to suddenly freak out and become red and hot and like nowhere Sam wants to be ever again.

Here, in this alternate world, in a dance practice room with mirrors Sam soon hates almost more than he hates the mirrors in Toledo that allowed the spirit of Mary Worthington to take people’s eyes away, almost more than he hates the mirrors he’d looked into while in Gary Frankel’s body, Sam struggles to transform 6’4” of I Hardly Ever Flirt into something passingly seductive.

It doesn’t help that Puppychow over there won’t quit laughing at him. Sam does find he’s a little more graceful than Dean at dancing the way they want them to dance, though, because Dean’s more compelled to be macho and stay macho, which is an okay angle and seems to work for him because he’s at least handsome and confident, but Sam’s pretty good at playing along and at using his “dewy eyes” to his advantage.

Jedi tries to help them at first, but Sam soon realizes Jedi’s probably the worst dancer in the room. A little embarrassed, Jedi admits to merely convincing everyone that he's good with his powers.

Sam’s old friend Amy Pond, who has been labelled Foxy, who Dean can't seem to look at at first without feeling crushing guilt, helps Sam and Dean both out a lot with their technique, and as Sam goes into a dance with full confidence on the stage for the first time, he focuses on her supportive grin and not on Meg’s heavy gaze.

***

Sam's actually sort of enjoying himself, thanks to Foxy, when, all of a sudden, he's not on a stage in practically nothing anymore. He's wearing a suit. And he's not dancing anymore either. He's standing in the middle of a snowy landscape with Bobby’s house plunked right down in front of him. 

“Bobby?” Sam calls, hopeful as he enters.

“No, man. It’s just me,” Garth calls, heading into the room. “Hey. Here, I made a list of the things you need to find.”

Sam pauses. “What?”

“You wanna get out, right, Dewy Eyes? Pretty straightforward. You need to find these items, and then you can get out of here. Out of there, whatever. Oh, and take these,” Garth says, nodding to a spread of a few loaded guns, a flask of holy water, salt, accelerant, a lighter, a silver knife, and a machete.

“Okay,” Sam says slowly. “Okay, yes, fine.” He shoves the weapons into an old bag he finds nearby on the floor, slinging the bag over his back. “So, what items do I need?” he asks. "Are they for a spell?"

Garth grabs a piece of paper and hands it over. "You'll know what to do," Garth says.

Sam raises a brow at the list. “A trophy. Really? Um…a knife.” Sam pauses. “Dude, I have knives now.  _You_  gave me knives, Garth.” 

“It’s a special knife. That’s all I know,” Garth says apologetically. “You’ll know it when you see it, though.”

“…Fine.” Sam reads on. “Fire. What?” He pauses, shakes his head, figuring he’ll know the fire when he sees it too, and then reads, “fingernails…and one thing more. What do you mean, one thing more?”

“The last thing’s a mystery. You’ll have to figure it out. But, I’m pretty sure you’ll know it when you see it.”

Sam sighs. “Okay,” he says, folding the list and putting it in his jacket pocket. “Great. Okay, um. How do I…get back?”

“You gotta face some real badasses first,” Garth explains. "They’ll be out there in the cold, waiting. When the music starts, it’ll be time.”

“Oh man,” Sam groans, “not more of that ‘sexy’ industrial crap.”

“No, man. It’ll be better than that,” Garth assures Sam, and Sam takes a moment to wave to Garth and draw out the rock salt-loaded shotgun with determination.

***

Sam stands on the front porch for a while before walking out into the vast stretch of nothingness. 

It's so cold. Why's it so cold?

Oh. A shape flickers into view off in the distance. Sam tightens his grip on the salt-loaded shotgun. He'll need it.

The sound of light guitar and bongos starts off in the distance.

Sam starts for the flickering figure, and she starts to walk toward Sam in turn. She's wearing a flowing, white gown. Her hair is blond.

_**I am as ugly as I seem, worse than all your dreams could ever make me out to be.** _

He gets in a few good shots, and she disappears for the moment, but he knows he's got to salt and burn her bones if he wants to win. 

_**And it makes me want to scream when it's Halloween and the kids are laughing.** _

He turns to walk back toward Bobby's house, but it's been replaced by the old house in Lawrence, the one Sam barely remembers. 

Maybe John will be able to help him. Sam opens the door, deciding it's definitely worth a shot.

_**The rogue is a bank he's never broke, but worth as much as a joke that no one is laughing at.** _

Sam shudders as he hears the cry of a baby coming from inside the house. Something about the cry is strange, echoey, almost animal. 

"Dad?" he calls as he steps inside. Oh, the house is beautiful. It's better than any of his pathetically lacking memories.

The baby cries again.

The nursery, his nursery. He's got to go upstairs. 

He sees the crib, taking a deep breath as he steps forward, expecting to see a younger version of himself. But the baby in the crib is a changeling, its hollow eye sockets and crying mouth enough to make Sam stumble backward. "Shit!" 

The ghost appears again, on the other side of the crib, and it's Mary Winchester.

_**Can you believe some things are not appealing? There's a spot on the ceiling of my childhood bedroom.** _

"Mom!" Sam says. "Mom, it's me, Sam."

Mary's ghost leans over the side of the crib. She lifts the baby. She smiles at it, holds the baby so that he has access to the back of her neck.

"Mom, no!" 

_**And in these dreams you can't imagine, none of them match the vision that you had decided for me.** _

Sam rounds the crib and takes the baby from her. Her eyes snap open, glaring at him, and she shrieks, fighting him to get to the baby. He starts to struggle with the strong changeling in his arms. The hungry little thing still wants to feed.

The ghost of Mary is in front of Sam suddenly, is reaching for the baby changeling. She tugs him away from Sam, and disappears, then reappears on the ceiling. 

"No!"

_**You are to take away from me things that are mine, and it's not your right. I'll bet you wouldn't expect a fight, oh.** _

The ceiling lights on fire, and his mother burns, but so does the changeling, squealing like a child in pain.

Sam stares in disbelief at the sight of his mother saving him yet again before he starts to run back out into the hall.

_**Can it be that I don't want what you want?** _

He's not in his house anymore;  he's in the place he'd had with Jess at Stanford.

" _No_ ," he says aloud. " _Stop._ "

_**And the only thing I could care for is a place in a home that is safe and warm, safe and warm, safe and warm, safe and warm.** _

Sam starts to run out of the building, makes his way across part of the parking lot.

Jess appears in front of him, her expression apologetic. She points, and Sam follows the indicated direction to see Jess's headstone. 

Sam opens the bag, slicing his finger on the knife accidentally as he pulls out the salt and the lighter.

**_Judge yourself if you feel the need, just let me known to be in search of the truth myself._ **

He quickly runs to the open hole of the grave, swallowing, his finger dripping blood down into the open casket as he starts to salt Jess's body, which looks oddly peaceful. Jess always was peaceful.

**_There is a drop of blood on the ground, and it seems to me that it's not my kind, and I can't be sure if it's yours or mine._  **

Garth prepared him well. Jess starts to burn, and so does the ghost, who stands by the headstone looking grateful. Sam closes his eyes for a moment when she's gone and feels the cold again, lets it surround him.

_**I am as ugly as I seem, worse than all your dreams could ever make me, could ever make me, could ever make me, could ever make me.** _

Their place in Stanford is gone when he opens his eyes and checks behind him.

As the music dies down, Sam finds himself back in the theater with the others, back on stage. Everyone is cheering for him, but he really wishes they would stop. He needs to be off the stage, needs to be alone, or with just Dean.

"Oh, Dewy Eyes," The Master calls. "I think I'm going to enjoy watching you. Maybe you can do something private for me sometime, kay?"

Sam swallows. No, that's not okay.

***

"Dude, are you crying?" Dean raises a brow as Sam comes to stand next to him.

Sam slumps his shoulders a little. "Look, maybe a little. Can we get out of here?"

Dean follows him back to the motel room, watching as Sam takes a seat on his bed. "Why the waterworks?"

"I, um," Sam says with a crack in his voice. "I...didn't stay in the room? Like, I remember starting to dance, right? But then...I was at Bobby's."

"Bobby's?" 

"Yeah. Like I was transported, somehow, only there was nothing around it, just his place, and it was really cold." Sam's wearing only those stupid shorts again, so the list isn't in his jacket pocket anymore. He sighs. "Um. Garth told me what I need to get to escape, though."

" _Garth?_ "

"Yeah _._ " 

"...And?"

"Five things." Sam lists them off on his fingers. "A trophy, a knife, fire...." Something weird. What was the weird one?

"That's three."

"Yeah, I know, Dean. ...Oh, ah, fingernails. And something else, but it's," he winces, "a mystery."

Dean frowns slightly. "That's sounds sort of like...."

"Like what?"

"Like a movie," Dean says.

Sam rolls his eyes at Dean's attachment to movies. "Yeah, well, did the movie include ghosts?" Sam says bitterly. "Because I just had to put Jess to rest. I tried to help Mom too, but she...I don't know, she just...didn't need my help."

Dean's face softens and he sits down on the bed next to Sam. "Sorry, Sam," he says kindly.

Sam wipes at his nose and cheeks with the back of his arm. "Was it as bad as I think it was?" he says. "The dancing, I mean."

Dean considers. "Not for the ungainly giraffe you really are," he teases, "Although, one more misstep and I'd have booed you off the stage." 

Sam sniffs and grins.

***

"Hey, sweetheart," Dean says. "Can I see that?"

"It's your funeral," Foxy says, handing Dean the clipboard.

Dean reads the sign up sheet. "What, you think I don't have talents?" he asks.

"Oh, you probably do. But I wouldn't put money on you winning," she teases. "Now, Dewy on the other hand, I probably would." She smiles encouragingly at Sam.

Jedi walks over from watching C-Span. "Dude, did you guys hear about the trophy?"

"For this?" Dean waves the clipboard with the sign up sheet.

"Yeah. It's su-weet," Jedi says. "For a trophy you can get from an institution, anyway. I mean, you don't get to keep it, they like...lock it up behind glass, but hey."

Dean writes down Sam's label, then hands the clipboard to Jedi.

"Freakerella," Dean comments. "The other name," he clarifies. "Sounds kinky. What about you, Foxy? Any talents?"

"I can do this one thing," she says with humor in her eyes. "It's what got me sent here in the first place."

Dean's face falls. "Awesome," he says with a grimace.

"No," Foxy admits. "It really wasn't." 

Dean doesn't know what to say.

Foxy takes the sheet back from Jedi and says, "Being here's not so bad, as long as you toe the line, and as long as The Master's not interested in you." She pauses. "Be careful, Dewy, okay? About drawing too much attention to yourself. But don't blame yourself for her interest, alright?"

Sam nods. "Okay," he says with a swallow.

Sam looks over and notes Dean's look of quiet concern.


	4. Silver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam enters the last competition of his life.
> 
> Rated PG. Lyrics from "Spaceman" by the Killers.

Not only does the winner of the talent show get a trophy that will remain locked behind glass, but they also get to be Meg's special assistant. Sam doesn't want to know what that even entails, but he's pretty sure he needs to be it to get Dean and himself out of the place. It must be what Garth meant.

Jedi's first, and with the help of Foxy, he shows off his ability to tell people what to do. Meg is impressed, but looks a little worried about that particular ability.

Jake, label Samson, is next, demonstrating his strength by lifting a couple girls at the same time.

Meg is impressed again, and so is Dean.

"These are the powers Azazel gave them," Sam points out. 

Dean laughs and says, "It's been way too long for me to care about that. Go be a psychic freak, Sammy." He pats him on the back. "Make that dead demon proud."

Sam stands  on a little X made of tape and closes his eyes. He's not sure if anything is going to happen at first. He's going to be booed off stage, isn't he? Why didn't he opt to go for tossing cards into a hat or something?

Suddenly, he feels the old familiar pain. He clutches at his forehead, presses against his eyes. In his mind, he sees Azazel, sees him coming into the asylum, walking in on the talent show, and lifting a hand to...wave.

He waves at Sam. "There can only be one soldier, Sammy," Azazel grins, flashing those yellow eyes and his teeth. "I'm rooting for you. Don't get distracted, huh? Oh, and, enjoy the seizure."

***

Sam collapses onto the ground and starts shaking uncontrollably. He hears Dean curse. Suddenly, he stops shaking, catching his breath for a moment before realizing he's not on the stage anymore. He's in his suit again. 

"Oh no!" Dean says a little dramatically. "Are you alright?" He offers a hand to Sam, and Sam takes it.

"Yeah. Yes. This is what I was talking about, Dean, the whole...transportation...thing." He blinks, looks around. "Great." They're in the middle of a forest, and his suit's a little muddy, and it's kind of foggy. 

Dean's mouth thins as he processes everything. "So, what do we do, then?"

"Last time, I hunted. And then, when my job was done, when the song was over, I came back."

Dean nods. "Okay, so...." he looks up. "Full moon."

"Shit," Sam says. He stretches a little, shakes off the post-seizure cramping of his muscles as best he can. He spots the bag from Garth's on the ground and sighs in relief. "Silver bullets," he comments. "One of them had silver bullets."

Dean bends to grab the bag, opening it, taking out the handgun. "Okay," he says. Then, he pauses. "Hey, look." He offers the handgun to Sam, and reaches into the bag for a second gun. "Awesome."

Sam reaches out, and from out of nowhere, from everywhere all at once just like the echo of bongos from the last time, The Killers' "Spaceman" starts playing, and Sam grasps the gun.

They hear a howl, and Sam heads carefully toward the noise when Dean doesn't take the lead. He cuts Dean a little slack.

The werewolf looks...mournful, like a sad dog, and it hasn't eaten the heart of the girl lying dead with her chest open yet.

**_It started with a low light. Next thing I knew, they ripped me from my bed, and then they took my blood type. It left a strange impression in my head._ **

Just as Sam's about to point out that they can probably save the werewolf, Dean raises the weapon. He misses with the first shot, but he gets it with the second.

**_You know that I was hoping that I could leave this star-crossed world behind, but when they cut me open, I guess I changed my mind._ **

Sam watches with quiet sadness at his brother's judgment ending the poor thing's life. The wolf probably could have made it.

_**And you know, I might have just flown too far from the floor this time, cause they're calling me by my name.** _ __

Sam doesn't have much time to focus on what happened because Dean has just been grabbed by a zombie. It's Max Miller, Sam realizes. He pulls Max off of Dean, gets him into a hold and moves out of the way.

Dean takes the shot, getting Max right through the head.

_**And they're zipping, white light beams disregarding bombs and satellites. That was the turning point. That was one lonely night.** _

"Sam!" Dean warns.

Sam turns around to see a djin, tattooed and angry, coming toward them.

_**The star maker says, "It ain't so bad." The dream maker's gonna make you mad. The spaceman says, "Everybody look down. It's all in your mind."** _

Sam raises a brow. Where are they going to find a lamb? Dean stares at the djin.

"Lamb," Sam reminds him, looking around.

A dog barks.

_**Well now I'm back at home, and I'm looking forward to this life I live. You know its gonna haunt me, so hesitation to this life I give.** _

Dean tries to fight off the strong djin as Sam gets the sudden urge to follow the dog. Well, of course he would. He's probably being ridiculous, but, then again, things here aren't exactly realistic.

Following the dog is a good idea. It spots a sheep nearby.

_**You think you might cross over. You're caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. You better look it over, before you make that leap.** _

Sam watches as the dog takes it down. It's not a long struggle.

When the life has left the lamb, Sam opens the bag and finds the silver knife, dipping it heavily in the blood, patting the dog's head absently for a moment in thanks. 

_**And you know, I'm fine, but I hear those voices at night sometimes. They justify my claim.** _ _**And the public don't dwell on my transmission cause it wasn't televised.** _

The dog follows him back to the djin, who has an unconscious Dean slung over its shoulder.

The djin pats its leg, as if calling the dog. He shifts Dean's weight, trying again, whistling.

_**But, it was the turning point. Oh, what a lonely night!** **The star maker says, "It ain't so bad."** _ _**The dream maker's gonna make you mad. The spaceman says, "Everybody look down. It's all in your mind."** _

Sam suddenly starts. Beneath the tattoos, the djin actually looks a little like...Ansen Weems. 

The djin stares right at Sam. Yeah, it's Ansen. For some reason, it's Ansen Weems.

The dog growls, and it suddenly has Ansen's attention.

_**The star maker says, "It ain't so bad." The dream maker's gonna make you mad. The spaceman says, "Everybody look down. It's all in your mind."** _

Ansen actually sets Dean down for a moment on the slightly damp ground, stepping toward the dog, reaching out.

The dog bites his hand.

During the djin's moment of surprise, Sam stabs him with the silver knife.

Turning back to the dog, Sam says, "Jedi?"

The dog shifts, revealing a naked Jedi, who covers himself. "You okay, Sam?" he asks. He's covered in the lamb's blood. He turns and says, "Dean? ...Whoa." Andy moves away from Dean, who looks determined, who looks...who looks kind of...off.

**_My global position systems are vocally addressed._ **

"Stop! Put that down!" Jedi says.

Only, Dean doesn't put it down.

_**They say the Nile used to run from East to West.** _

He shoots Andy in cold blood.

Sam rushes to Andy's side.

**_They say the Nile used to run...from East to West._ **

Sam wraps his arms around Andy, heedless of the blood, feeling the life leave him, feeling helpless. No. No, not now.

_**I'm fine, but I hear those voices at night sometimes.** _

Sam stares up at Dean, letting go of Andy. Sam wipes off the silver knife, eyeing Dean, getting to his feet. Dean doesn't step back, but his eyes are wide, he's eyeing the knife. "Sam," he pleads, fake tears in his eyes.

_**The star maker says, "It ain't so bad." The dream maker's gonna make you mad. The spaceman says, "Everybody look down. It's all in your mind."** _

Sam makes a quick slice, and Dean sort of crumples, clutching the spot, glaring at Sam.

Shit.

_**The star maker says, "It ain't so bad." The dream maker's gonna make you mad. The spaceman says, "Everybody look down. It's all in your mind."** _

Sam goes for the kill, stabbing Dean because it's not Dean. It's Ava. Or, Freakerella, he should say. The rush of blood in his ears prevents him from hearing the thundering footsteps for a moment, but he feels them soon enough. He's being lifted into the air in a giant's dark hand. 

_**It's all in my mind. It's all in my mind.** _

A giant is about to eat Sam.

_**It's all in my mind. It's all in my mind. It's all in my mind.** _

There's the pain of his bones crunching, and then Sam doesn't have another thought for a while.


	5. Unsung Songs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam thinks he's still alive, but it turns out he's alive _again_ instead. Gabriel says hi.
> 
> Rated PG.

Sam wakes up in his motel bed with Dean on top of him, asleep.

Sam nudges Dean. "Dude." It's not that he doesn't appreciate the closeness, but he'll take time to appreciate it when they aren't both wearing flimsy shorts. "Dean, wake up." He pats Dean's bare back gently.

Dean jerks awake. "Sam?" he calls hesitantly, face still pressed to Sam's shoulder. 

"Who else would it be?" Sam says with amusement. 

"You're warm," Dean says somehow too seriously.

Sam laughs uncertainly. "Is there something wrong with you?"

Dean pulls his sleep-smooshed face away from Sam's shoulder. His face is a little pink, his hair a little mussed. "Dude, you were _dead_ when I went to sleep."

"What?" Sam laughs. "No. I wasn't."

"Stone cold dead," Dean says, slinking off the bed, kneeling down next to it. He presses a hand to Sam's forehead, runs his eyes over Sam's chest and front, tells him to turn over. Sam huffs, but complies.

"Guess it worked," says Dean cryptically. He gets up and walks out.

Sam feels a little sleep-leaden, but he gets to his feet and shakes his head. "Dead?" he asks himself. He sighs. He makes his way back toward the theater after Dean. At least, that's where he hopes he's going.

There are a couple blood stains in the theater, but no Dean. "What...happened here?" Sam says aloud.

***

"It was pretty crazy," calls a voice Sam knows well. Sam slowly turns, swallowing, and there she is, dressed in a skimpier outfit than he's ever seen her wear. He just stares at her for a moment.

Finally, he offers his hand. "Hi! Um, hi, I'm...Dewy Eyes."

She frowns slightly at his hand for a moment before carefully offering her own, saying, "You're pretty creepy there, Dewy Eyes. They call me Dreamgirl."

"Dreamgirl. That's nice. Hey, um, did you see what happened here?" he asks.

"Yeah. Uh, yeah. It was pretty bad. This, um. This guy with yellow eyes came in. The Master, she said he was a talent scout. He opened fire."

"What?" Sam says, swallowing. 

"Yeah." She adjusts the skimpy bottoms of her outfit over her hips for a moment, part of her nervous habit of tugging at her sleeves. "You got hit, but I guess you're okay."

"Did anyone else get hurt?" he swallows.

"Yeah. Um, the other people who were trying to get that trophy. I guess I'm not too surprised. They kill a lot of people here."

"Do you know what, ah, set things off?" Sam asks.

"Well, the one girl tried to escape. The one always wearing gloves? She touched The Master when she was distracted." 

"Did The Master...?" Sam trails off.

"No. _She_ is fine," Dreamgirl says. "The man with the yellow eyes killed the girl with the gloves, killed the other girl for ratting her out when she was about to touch The Master, and then he took that...freaky strong kid with him."

"Did he say where?" Sam asks. 

"No. But, out, I think." She adjusts her top, also out of nervous habit. "I think he wanted to put him in a show or something. Crazy, huh?"

"Yeah," Sam says, feeling a little better about everything. Azazel hadn't killed Jedi. 

"He shot me?" Sam asks. 

"Oh, no. You? Sorry, you were out cold when they had the girl with the gloves touch you. She didn't want to. You were seizing, remember? She knocked you right out. Glad you're okay."

Sam swallows. "Uh, yeah. Me too. Um, thanks for the recap, Dreamgirl," he says. "Would you like to...watch some C-Span with me sometime?" Hey, if it's the only place he can have Amelia, he'll take it.

Dreamgirl raises a brow. "No one's ever asked me that before," she says. "Especially not with death on the brain. But, maybe later."

Sam notices the tiny scraps of cloth near the spots where blood has stained the carpet. "One more thing, Dreamgirl. What's the cloth for?" 

She sighs, stepping closer to the piles of cloth scraps. "Memorials," she says. She points to a couple locks of people's hair too. "Pretty twisted, huh?"

Sam kneels down near the stains, running his fingers through his own hair. He doesn't have anything sharp to cut with, but he does pull out several strands and line them up in his hands, placing them near some of the other hair.

***

"Sam?" Dean calls, and Sam looks over at the entrance to the theater. 

"Dean," he responds. "Hey. Amelia told me what happened."

Dean blinks. "Amelia's here?"

"Yeah," Sam says, looking around. "Uh, well, she was in here a second ago. She told me what happened. Lily killed me, right?"

"What?"

"The girl with the gloves. Can't Touch This. They made her. And then she went for Meg, and they shot her. And then Ava was shot. And Azazel took Jake out of here."

Dean nods carefully. "And, um."

Sam's face falls. "No. Dean, no."

"Jedi," Dean says, nodding sadly. "He was last."

"No," Sam says again. "I mean...why?"

Dean swallows. "Meg just said he couldn't dance worth crap, and she just shot him, just...took him down."

" _Shit_ ," Sam exclaims, bowing his head. 

"I liked him too," Dean says. He steps closer to Sam, offering him a hand up. "We gotta get out of here."

Sam lets Dean help him up. Then he scrubs a hand through his hair. "I came back. What if Andy comes back?"

Dean closes his eyes for a moment, centering himself. "Sam," he finally says, "I went to the therapist. Yeah, we have one. It's Ellen. I went to Ellen and told her I wanted you back. I mean, it's understandable, right? Said I'd give anything." He swallows. "Only, Meg came in, and she decided it was a deal. So she kissed me. She brought you back."

"Deal?" Sam swallows.

"Yeah," Dean says. "Um. I die tomorrow, Sam. It'll be up to you," he says nervously.

Sam slowly kneels back down on the blood-stained carpet and stares at the offerings of the insane to commemorate the forgotten. 

"Okay," Sam says.

***

"Well, come on," Dean finally says. "Enough moping. Help me work on my routine."

"What? Why?" Sam asks, pushing himself back up to his feet again.

"Maybe if Meg likes what she sees, she won't be so quick on the draw, like with Jedi."

"She made you make a deal, Dean."

"So? Maybe I'll seduce her, or let her ride around in me for a little while. It's Meg. And I know it's Meg, but it's _Meg_. It's not Azazel, it's not even...Ruby."

"It's not really even Meg," Sam points out as he lets Dean take the lead toward the dance practice room with the large mirrors. "It's really The Master. This Meg hasn't helped us like the real Meg has. The extent of our history here is she's handsy and likes to make people suffer."

"Maybe you could flirt with her, then," Dean suggests. "I mean, she brought you back, huh? She probably kind of has a thing for you. The demon chicks always do."

"Wait, so you want me to see if I can get close to Meg?" Sam frowns. 

"Only if it'll work," Dean says. "I mean, we have one day. What can we lose?"

Sam agrees to try it, and Foxy shows up to help.

***

"Dean, I think Meg likes that industrial crap."

"What's wrong with real music?" Dean fumbles with the controls on the radio. He grins for a moment. "Hey, Sammy. Asia."

The color drains from Sam's face. "Change it," he says.

Dean gives him a strange look and turns it up a little. 

"I'm serious, Dean," Sam whispers, his voice choked.

_** Do you remember when we used to dance and incidents arose from circumstance? ** _

Dean laughs for a moment in disbelief. "You know, I thought you didn't have a lick of taste, but this is ridiculous."

**_ One thing lead to another we were young, and we would scream together songs unsung. It was the heat— _ **

Dean flicks off the radio as Sam covers his ears and hunches forward, trying to seem small. 

Dean heads over to him. "Sam?" he calls. "Sam?" He looks at Foxy for some sort of an explanation, but she looks alarmed and confused too. 

"Traumatic responses to Asia songs," Dean says with a laugh. "Who knew?" He looks sadly at Sam, who's opening his eyes, shaking it out, sighing.

"Um. Not that song," Sam says. "Just. Not that song."

Dean turns the radio back on carefully when he's sure the song will be over. 

_**Don't bet your future on one roll of the dice. Better remember, lightning never strikes twice.** _

"Industrial crap," Sam says sharply. When Dean gives him a strange look he adds, "...Please."

Dean turns off the radio, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace.

Sam looks around. "Um. I think. Do you think Gabriel could be alive?"

Dean blinks. "Okay. Sam, what the hell did you take, cause you're tweaking pretty hard there. Crying over Asia, and now this?"

Sam makes his way to one of the few chairs in the room, sitting down heavily. "Dean, those are the songs that were playing that Tuesday. And that Wednesday," he says pointedly.

"Okay, _what_ Tuesday and Wednesday?"

Sam's bitch face says it all.

"Oh." Dean nods slowly. "Um. So, sexy industrial crap?"

"What's going on?" Foxy asks.

"It's a long story, starring one of Heaven's biggest dicks," Dean says. "Gabriel? Gabriel, we found you out, you twisted son of a bitch."

They hear a snap, and turn to see Foxy is frozen in place, and that Gabriel is quietly walking into the dance room. "My bad. One song, coincidence. Both songs? Had to be me."

"Okay," Dean says with a swallow, "we knows it's you now. So...let us out."

"Okay, Dean," Gabriel says, pausing for effect. "When Sammy's learned his lesson."

Dean gives Sam a What Did You Do? look.

Sam swallows. "Lesson?"

"I'm not gonna tell you what the lesson is, Sam," Gabriel says with a shrug. "That's for you to realize. But if you want Dean's help, you've only got a day. You remember what it's like to be without him, I'm sure. Didn't go well the first time. Or the second time either."

"Gabriel, please," Sam says with tears in his eyes. 

"You know what I'm talking about, Sam," Gabriel says. "We're going to finish this so I can prove my point. You should be flattered, kid," he points out. "This took a lot of work. Creepy asylum, three levels of reality, labels, a villain you already know who fits the bill. It's pretty complex."

Dean stares at Gabriel. "Oh, you gotta be kidding me. Really?"

"I knew _you'd_ get it, Dean," Gabriel says. He grins. With a snap, he's gone again, and Foxy is free to move. 

"What? What did you get?" Sam asks Dean.

"What movie we're in." Dean shakes his head. "Hate to say it, but I was right."


	6. Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam is Meg's new assistant, and he learns that he's playing his role whether he realizes it or not.
> 
> Rated PG-13 for violence and blood drinking. Includes lyrics from Beck's "Profanity Prayers."

" _Sucker Punch._ " Dean shakes his head.

"What?"

"We're in _Sucker Punch_."

"Um...? What's that, again?"

Dean gives him the You Uncultured Swine look. "Chicks in an asylum use the power of imagination to defeat the enemy, a real creep of an orderly," he explains.

"Oh. Okay, so, what do we do?" Sam asks.

"Well...we get the things Garth wants us to get," Dean says, "and then one of us sacrifices himself, and the other one gets out of here. That's about it. Pretty straightforward."

"Sacrifice?" Foxy asks, staring at Sam and Dean.

"The one thing more?" Dean smirks knowingly at Sam and Foxy. "That's one of us. Me or Sam. We start to escape, then one of us is a distraction, and the other one gets away."

Sam sighs. "Doesn't Gabriel know we've learned how to be apart by now?"

"Maybe he didn't get the memo," says Dean. "He's been MIA. Anyway, don't worry so much. We'll be done in no time."

Foxy frowns. "You think you can really make this work? You'll get out?"

"If one of us gets out, I think we can save the rest of you too," Dean says.

Hope flickers in Foxy's eyes for a moment. "Is that what happened in the movie?"

Dean smiles brightly. Sam notes that he doesn't answer.

"Yeah, but Dean," Sam says. "I don't even think I got the trophy."

"So let's take it," Dean says. "Piece of cake."

"I don't think I can help with that," Foxy says, swallowing.

"No, I think Garth meant for me to win, Dean. Like...part of the prize was being Meg's assistant, right? So maybe I'm supposed to get close to Meg."

Dean raises a brow. He takes a long moment to assess Sam's motives before shrugging. "I guess let's find out."

"What, like ask her if I won?"

Dean smirks. "But with class," he says. "And seduce her if you have to."

"You're the one whose nipple she pinched, Dean," Sam says, expression awkward and a little troubled.

"We're in Gabriel's sandbox, okay? The worst that happens is, like, she possesses you and you kill me. We'll still be _actually_ alive, Sam."

Sam blinks. As unpleasant as being possessed sounds, Dean has a point.

Foxy looks between the two of them. "Okay, what is going on?" she asks.

Dean clears his throat. "Foxy, do you believe in angels?"

Sam sighs and slips off to visit Meg.

***

"Well as you live and breathe," The Master smirks. "I'd almost forgot what you looked like without the life zapped out of you. I didn't think she could kill demons like that, but we had to be sure. Glad we tested it, huh?"

Sam looks around at her office. It actually looks uncomfortably normal, considering she's Meg. There's even a stapler. "I was wondering," Sam says, keeping his eyes downcast, "if you wanted me as an assistant?"

He hears her laugh. "Oh sweetheart," she says, "I can see right through your act. But that's okay, 'cause I like it. For now, yeah, I could see offering you the...position. There might be other positions I'd like you in better later, kay? We'll cross that bridge when we get to it."

Sam looks at her uncertainly. "Um," he finally tries, "is there anyway you could... _not_ kill Dean?"

"My father in Hell, you look pretty when you beg," Meg declares. "Do you have anything to offer me?"

"Um. You can...um. Possess me?"

The Master giggles. "Oh Dewy, I could do that anyway. No, here. I'll play nice. Because you're oh-so-innocent, I'm going to make wasting your brother short and sweet. And in the mean time? I have a job for you. Go meet with the cook and make me something special, okay? I'm craving some kind of dessert, maybe something light and fruity? Okay, see ya, buh bye," The Master says, waving at Sam until, awkwardly, he backs out of the room again.

"And close the door," she calls. "I can still smell you."

***

"Well," Sam says, "maybe we can get all the things we need before your time is up. You know?"

"Maybe," Dean says. "But then again, we're reliving things more or less how they happened, right?"

"What?" Sam thinks for a moment. Mom and Jess, then the stuff with Azazel's whole Soldier Competition? Dean's right. 

"Shit, Sammy, what would you even do without me?" Dean says, amused.

Sam swallows. 

"So what's next? After I died, you started hanging out with Ruby, right?"

"Yeah," Sam confirms.

"So...go do that."

"What if she isn't here?"

"Try to get Meg to help you, then. Manipulative bitches, same difference, right?"

Sam sighs. "Okay. Maybe I should, um. Well...she wants me to try and bake her something. I know," he says quickly at the look on Dean's face. "But, hey, it's what she wants, and I'm assisting her."

"This means you got the trophy, right?"

"Uh." Sam considers it. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess."

"So get yourself a knife, Sammy."

Sam nods. "Um. Maybe while I'm baking, I can grab one."

"Not bad. Go ahead," Dean says. "I'll be here, seeing if anyone we know can help."

***

Sam sort of hovers awkwardly in the doorway to the kitchen. "Um...hi?" he asks.

The cook has light brown hair all pulled back. It looks silky. Sam pauses for a minute, waiting to be acknowledged.

She turns, runs prideful green eyes over his chest and torso. "Oo. Hello there," she says in that accent he remembers. "You can call me Sticky Fingers. It's my last day here, so don't bother getting too attached. You're here for me to order around, then? Fresh meat, as they say?"

"Um." Sam swallows, remembering his old, awkward attraction to Bela. "Uh, I guess. I'm here to help make something for The Master, something 'light and fruity'," he quotes.

"That doesn't surprise me," Sticky Fingers comments, "considering her choice in uniform." She gazes at Sam's flimsy shorts with a hint of derision for them, followed by a look of appreciation for his body as her eyes make their way back up. He swallows. 

"Um. Yeah. Anyway." He steps into the kitchen, looking around. "Do you have something in mind?"

"What does she call you?"

Sam winces. "Dewy Eyes," he says softly.

"Well, Dewy Eyes, follow my lead and we'll have something ready in no time." She actually has a nice smile, even if it hardly ever reaches her eyes.

"Yeah, of course," he says. "Lead the way."

She looks impressed with the answer, assessing him again with a pointed gaze. "It'll almost be a shame to leave now," she says, "if I can make you reach tall shelves and bend over while wearing almost nothing at all."

Sam laughs in surprise. This Bela is a softer Bela somehow. She's not about to shoot him or hand him to Lilith or steal the Colt he doesn't have. And he likes the way she's looking at him. He'd never quite gotten over his crush and the guilt he'd had about her dying because of her deal. If anyone knew teenagers made some stupid decisions, it was Sam, both from his own experience and from running into Gary Frankel. And maybe she'd had a good reason, too.

Bela is intrigued by his laughter. She hands him a cup measure. "Think you can handle the flour, flower?" she teases.

Sam hopes he isn't blushing.

When she has Sam start to mix ingredients, he starts to feel soothed by the sights and smells of the kitchen, by the act of baking. He'd never gotten a chance to help his mom bake, but he'd gotten to help Jess a few times. There was a science to it that was, well, impressive. 

Sam's actually sort of enjoying working with Sticky Fingers when he's transported again.

"Fuck. Gabriel...seriously?" Sam says, furrowing his brow.

***

"Okay, what the hell?" Sam says aloud. One of his wrists is cuffed to a link deep in the concrete wall of a cellar. He tugs at it, trying to figure out how best to get out of it, if possible.

There's movement at the cellar door. Sam holds his breath.

"Sam," a voice calls.

Ruby. He watches her come down the cellar steps, tensing.

Ruby pulls a knife from her pocket. Sam backs up against the wall with a swallow.

Ruby raises a brow, then laughs, giving him that look that means he's being a spastic freak. "Hungry, Sam?"

The music to Beck's "Profanity Prayers" starts playing.

"What?" Sam tries to pull away, but he can't get far. Ruby draws a knife out of her pocket, smiles, lifts it with one hand. Sam swallows, but takes a ready stance. He still has an arm free, after all. He should be able to defend himself. 

Should is the key word because, holy crap, she's grabbing his free arm and squeezing, and he yelps. 

Sam looks at her hand. Her nails are sharp, almost like...talons. His eyes widen.

_**In a cast iron cage you couldn't help but stare like a creature.** _

He he struggles a little, but she squeezes a little more and he goes still. It's enough force to break his arm, and the talons are digging in so far he can feel them inside of his arm, to the desperate beating of his heart. He can hear his heartbeat.

Or, can he hear...hers?

_**With the laws of a brothel and the fireproof bones of a preacher.** _

Smirking a little, she releases his arm and raises the knife up. She makes a clean slice in the arm of the hand he'd been squeezed by.

The blood starts to flow, and it smells...good.

_**And your lingo coined from the sacrament of a casino.** _

It smells delicious, actually.

_**On a government loan with a guillotine in your libido.** _

When she presses the wound to his mouth, he plays his role and drinks, and it's not really a hardship.

_**Who's gonna answer profanity prayers?** _

He braces her arm with the hand of his still-smarting free arm. He hadn't known he'd needed that drink.

She's laughing at him, and, still, he's actually smacking his lips.

Demon blood wasn't even this sweet.

_**Who's gonna answer profanity prayers?** _

She's won. He's going to...what happens when you drink dragon blood anyway?

_**Well you know how it looks when you pull all your books from the table.** _

So swiftly it makes him lightheaded, he feels old, familiar power rush through his veins, making him feel strong, making him pulse with the loss of his control.

_**And you stare into space trying to discern what to say now.** _

He tries to pull the metal cuff from the wall. He gives it a few tugs as he drinks and licks his lips and drinks again.

It works. The metal comes free with a chink. He has two free arms now, one sporting a cuff and one sporting deep talon holes.

**_And you wait at the light and watch for a sign that you're breathing._ **

She steps forward, leans in. He's still up against the wall, so she does manage to steal a kiss, but he pushes her away, suddenly furious, finding it hard to concentrate on trying to play his role.

**_Cos you can't just live on air and float to the ceiling._ **

He feels talons grow from his fingers. He feels wings sprout from his back. And his hands are hot. Inside of him, he's hot, like he needs to let it out.

He wants to let it out at Ruby. He wants revenge like its white hot in his stomach, in his throat. He growls.

_**Who's gonna answer profanity prayers?** _

She laughs. "Are you going to rise up, Sam? Are you gonna kill me?"

He nods.

He has a feeling revenge will taste sweeter than her blood. He scratches at her shoulder, getting through the cloth and into soft skin. She laughs again.

_**Who's gonna answer profanity prayers?** _

He lifts her up, digging the talons in, noting her closeness for a moment as he holds her against him. He remembers her warmth, back when he'd thought she was his savior. He'd never loved her, and she'd never loved him, but she had been comforting once.

He _loathes_ her.

Sam throws her against the wall with all his new-found strength, hearing an ominous and satisfying crack. She falters, clutching at herself on the ground. 

He reaches for the shackle around his wrist, actually _pulls it open_ with brute force alone, from a single hand. He wipes his hand against his mouth, her blood painting the back of it in streaks. He licks at them for a moment.

She's coming toward him again, a sick smile on her face like she still thinks she can win, like she has the power since he loves the blood. He's frightened of her, of the fact she might be right, but he says, "Hey, Ruby."

She raises a brow.

"Thanks for forging me with dragon's blood and letting me pull myself out of the stone," he growls.

He goes in for the kill, with his bare talons. He's tearing her apart.

_**Who's gonna answer profanity prayers?** _

The bitch is laughing! He keeps slicing as she glows and starts to die, and she's choking on her own laughter, like he's lost, like this is exactly what she wants.

_**Who's gonna answer profanity prayers?** _

He rolls her away from him, backing up into the corner, afraid of what he's done, afraid of the blood on his hands, afraid of how sweet it still smells.

Her blood starts to pool in shaky lines on the ground, lines he's never forgotten.

Has he just killed the one dragon they wanted him to kill?

He just played his role, Sam thinks, staring wide-eyed at all the blood on the floor and on his hands. He's just played his role all over again.

Good.

But he really wants to vomit all the same.

He finds himself back in the kitchen, the blood gone but not the rising bile. He makes a run for the large sink and baptizes it with the evidence of his self-disgust.

He hears Bela's amusement as she asks what's wrong, and it reminds him of Ruby. He closes his eyes.


	7. Purée Modesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sticky Fingers has a good plan, but it's not good _enough_.
> 
> Rated PG-13 for harassment.

"Alright?" 

There's a hand rubbing at his back gently. Sticky Fingers' hand. Sam turns to look at her, confused. 

"I've never quite seen someone react to mixing cake batter like that before," she says lightly.

The door to the kitchen opens easily with a metallic screech, and Sticky Fingers sort of freezes, her hand still resting lightly on Sam's bare back. Sam pulls away from the touch and turns to see who's at the door.

"Hey, guys," Meg says. "How's it going? No, wait, don't tell me. I don't really care. Just here to say your shift is over in...," Meg squints for a moment in thought. "Ten."

Sam turns to see Sticky Fingers, who is now facing Meg. There'sh a perfectly blank expression on her fact that Sam suspects means she's terrified and determined not to show it.

"I still expect dessert," Meg grins at Sam.

Then, Meg is gone again. The door is shut. "Bela? Ah...Sticky Fingers?" Sam tries.

She either ignores him or doesn't hear him at all as she makes her way toward the knife stand, her back toward him. She pulls a knife out, weighs in it her hand. 

She clears her throat.  "I hope you have no actual loyalty to that dog-toting bitch, Dewy, because I _am_ going to kill her." She turns to look at him over her shoulder, that hair looking just as silky as before, her gaze both troubled and unmoving. "I'll take you down if I must, and that is no joke."

"I believe you," Sam says quietly. "Are you planning to use...what, a kitchen knife?"

She turns toward him, scowling. "Mind your business, and purée those strawberries, huh?" 

"Sticky Fingers, look," he raises his hands in front of him. "I could help."

"You'll only mess it up."

"But—"

"No," she says coolly. "This conversation? Over." 

Sam nods and keeps helping with the dessert.

***

All too soon, the door opens with another metallic screech. Meg is petting the head of a snarling, gruesome guard dog and smirking. Sam leans against the counter and tries to look small.

"I think I'll let you finish the dessert first, cause I'm hungry," Meg says. "Not as hungry as Hank here, though. What a good boy," she says petting him.

Meg runs eyes up and down Sam. "I just got a call about you. I've been trying to work out what to say to them."

"Oh yeah? Who was it?"

"None of your business. Now, Sticky Fingers." Meg tuts. "It's time to...fire you."

Sticky Fingers lunges suddenly, surprising Meg and even Sam. Meg starts to fight her with superior demon strength for a bit, avoiding the knife in Sticky Fingers' hands, and Sam suddenly recognizes it. It's Ruby's knife.

The dog snarls and makes a lunge of its own, biting down, drawing blood.  Sam freezes for a second at the sight of the snarling dog drawing so much blood from this new, softer Bela. He runs toward the fridge and searches, ripping into a paper package of raw meat, throwing the package actually at the dog, trying to distract it. 

Meg starts to laugh.  "Sweetheart, that's a little smart and a whole lot stupid," she says, watching the dog take a brief interest in the meat, sniffing it. "I'm gonna get your brother so good, and you're gonna watch."

Sam sees the knife clatter to the ground and get knocked under the wheeling island. 

"Worth a shot," he says boldly, reaching for the next nearest knife. He stabs it into the dog with a swallow. 

"I'm afraid, quite literally, that's not gonna cut it," Meg says above its snarling. The dog growls at Sam. Sticky Fingers takes the opportunity to try and run. She makes it out of the kitchen, leaving a trail of blood as the dog rounds on Sam. It turns to look at Meg as if waiting for orders.

Sam raises his hands in defense, backing up. 

"Easy, Hank," Meg says. "We need him at his most pretty for our special guest. I have my answer now, Dewy Eyes. Enjoy that body of yours while its still all yours." She grins.

"What does that mean?" Sam asks shakily.

"It means I'm sort of convinced I should maybe take you for a ride before you don't belong here anymore." She reaches out and steps toward Sam, stroking his jaw with her fingertips. "What do you say?"

Sam swallows.

***

The oven buzzes.

"Hey, though, finish my food first," Meg says. "Hop to it. I'll be back in a few. Gotta make sure someone got Sticky Fingers. Hank will stand guard while I'm out. Don't try to escape."

***

Sam stares at Hank, who stares back, before he finally starts to decorate the desert. He moves slowly under the dog's hungry gaze, avoiding stepping in raw, bloody meat with his bare feet as he walks. He slips an apron on and moves the island enough to slip the knife inside the pocket. He artfully drips some puréed strawberry onto the apron's front and gets just a bit of it on his skin as well.

***

"Get some of that on the cake?"

Sam turns to look at her, gesturing to the sloppy but supposedly delicious dessert. "All yours."

"Thanks." Meg pats Hank on the head. "Hank's not the only good little guard dog we've got. You really made a mess of yourself. You look like you're covered in Sticky Fingers insides. That's sweet." Meg leans in enough to lick some of the purée off the front of his apron. Sam squirms uncomfortably, but doesn't pull away.

"Hey, Master? Can I...wear this down to the laundry room?"

"Ha. Sure." Meg takes a step back, assessing him again. "I dig the modesty, kid. Our special guest's gonna love that too. Nothing better than a little corrupted innocence." Meg grasps the left cheek of Sam's ass with a grip that threatens to bruise, watches him swallow and fight not to pull away.

"Go. Before I hop on in that sweet bod of yours. 'Kay?"

Sam goes.

***

On the way back to the motel room, Sam spots Sticky Fingers. Parts of her anyway. She must have made a deal.

That's going to happen to Dean, if Sam doesn't do something about it.

Sam hides Ruby's knife in the motel room and resolves to do something about it.


End file.
